Spring is in the Air

Most of my writing is done during the long, cold, wet winter when I can only rely upon memories of springtimes past to infuse a little warmth onto my page. There are, of course, those lovely firelit romantic interludes but I prefer the sun lit alfresco ones.

Spring is traditionally the time of love. When the birds indulge in a cliche of  twittering as they build nests and squabble over the mates. The daffodils nod in the light breeze and the sunshine beams down, thawing the winter chill, urging me to remove my thermals and show off some skin.
There is something about the time of year that makes me want to wander along leafy lanes, hand in hand with the one I love, talking of nothing, laughing at silliness. But where is the time for that?

Modern life, for all its labour saving devices and speedy methods of transport, seems to be very short on quality time. Too much to do, too many places to visit, too much money to be made, deadlines to be met, leaving, 'no time to stand and stare.'
Sometimes, I feel really stretched and just want to  lay it all down, laze all day in the garden with a good book (somebody else's not mine) and let the day pass slowly and uneventfully.  This rarely happens now. I gave all that up when I decided to write full time.

When the children were small and I was a stay at home mum, there was bags of time. Time for playing, time for reading to them, time for showing them small, wonderful things. I had no computer then and my stories were scribbled onto notepads to be laboriously typed up at some hazy time in the future. No pressure, no worries, just fun and lots of runny noses to wipe.

I suppose it's just a case of the past being rosier and I am happy to be a novelist. After all it's what I always dreamed of, sitting at a lovely desk, tapping out fabulous novels, earning a crust and a reputation as a writer. But, now I have all that, how I would love to take a month off, to enjoy the garden without feeling I should be at my desk; to set out a picnic lunch under the trees in the garden, fill a pool with water and listen to their happy voices while I slumber in the sun. The children are all grown up now and I, somehow, have become middle aged and the future that I always looked forward to is here, making me look wistfully backward.

But I live my past in my stories, not in the wildly passionate romances, there weren't too many of those, just a few that counted ... and mattered. But, every instance of my life, my  thoughts, feelings, memories; they all show up from time to time and colour my work just as surely as they colour my future.

Have a good spring season everyone.

Love is not just for St. Valentine's Day.

No romance author worth her salt would miss posting a blog on St. Valentine's Day so here I am, blogging on February 14th, 2012 about love and what it means to me.

 When I was a giddy young thing I believed there was nothing worse than a Valentine's Day devoid of cards and flowers - my (then) partner never dared to overlook such an important day or the resulting row would be horrible. So, for many years I had the red satin hearts and the flowers, not always roses for they are hard on a fella's wallet. But the gifts always seemed to lack something, perhpas I was ungrateful but I have come to realise that the thing they lacked was the sentiment.
It's easy to give flowers once a year and let that be the limit of romantic expression. I understand now that I was with the wrong man.

Now I am older, (some would say wiser but they'd probably be wrong) the cards don't matter so much and neither do the gifts. The thing that is important these days is the affection that is given daily. For almost twenty years he has been bringing me coffee in bed every morning and working extra hard, allowing me to write full time (despite never making enough money at it.)  I don't need roses or fancy cards one day a year because at least once a week, he comes home with something small thing he has seen and thought I might like. It might just be a piece of art deco china or a pretty vase to most people but, to me, it's special  because it comes from him. We don't dine out very often because it is nicer here with just the two of us.

As long as he continues to come home, kiss me on the cheek and ask how my day has been, I will be happy because it's the moment I have waited for all day.  So, if your partner forgot your card and left the hyped-up tacky gifts on the supermarket shelf, don't worry; as long as he comes home with a smile and a pleased-to-see-you kiss, you shouldn't really need anything more.

Happy Valentine's Day everyone.